


Religious Sects

by Red_Seraphim



Category: Abrahamic Religions
Genre: Possible non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4915705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Seraphim/pseuds/Red_Seraphim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically just a really blasphemous poem I wrote in high school and now added to. Hope it's enjoyable</p>
            </blockquote>





	Religious Sects

You step into the chapel

and wet your fingers

at God's generous font,

ever full for the

ever sinful.

You sidle into a pew,

knees knocking

in anticipation of absolution.

You absently bite your lip

as you listen to a sermon

of just how bad you've been,

fiddling with hymnal pages like a zipper.

The incense, as well as

the lulling, Latin phrases,

make you feel like you're dreaming

as you take your place in line

to take Him into your mouth.

The heat weighs like sin's origin,

despite the high and holy roof;

the sweat mingles with His skin

as He falls to pieces on your tongue.

How quickly He's inside is how fast

you need Him again -

you step into a confessional

to find a trickle of Jordan while you're

waiting.

You enter the dark past the silk curtain

as a voice, rough with experience,

strained by a collar and sacraments,

asks how long its been since you last came.

You tell him how your body is racked

like a man's stretched journey

from sea ship to whale belly.

He tells you to await

(you, the anxious, patient)

His Second Coming

where He'll rock your world

and He'll sit in judgment

of how good you are to Him.

His Right Hand will judge

how well you finger a rosary,

how well you perform missionary,

how hard you try for bishops.

You head home, kneel before your bed

congregate your fingertips into

a gentle temple

and piously contemplate

Him and His Son

purifying you with

market-destroying, table up-turning passion,

ravage you like Revelations

until Their Rapture carries you away

from simple cloths, stained and torn

from frequent possession

to a pleasure

eternal,

blissful,

and gated in Their pearls.

The orgies of crossing

feel like a biblical

desperation,

a panicked grasping at fragments

of sacraments -

begging for forgiveness

ever since the first hint of blood.

Drink from His cup, you parched sinner.

Every moment you fall farther and farther from His Grace

and deeper and deeper into His Embrace

screaming his name like Hallelujahs.

 


End file.
